The Grain of Dust: A Novel

  XI

  The next day or the next but one Dorothy telephoned him. He often calledher up on one pretext or another, or frankly for no reason at all beyondthe overwhelming desire to hear her voice. But she had never before"disturbed" him. He had again and again assured her that he would notregard himself as "disturbed," no matter what he might be doing. Shewould not have it so. As he was always watching for some faint sign thatshe was really interested in him, this call gave him a thrill of hope--aspecimen of the minor absurdities of those days of extravagant folly.

  "Are you coming over to-day?" she asked.

  "Right away, if you wish."

  "Oh, no. Any time will do."

  "I'll come at once. I'm not busy."

  "No. Late this afternoon. Father asked me to call up and make sure. Hewants to see you."

  "Oh--not you?"

  "I'm a business person," retorted she. "I know better than to annoy you,as I've often said."

  He knew it was foolish, tiresome; yet he could not resist the impulse tosay, "Now that I've heard your voice I can't stay away. I'll come overto lunch."

  Her answering voice was irritated. "Please don't. I'm cleaning house.You'd be in the way."

  He shrank and quivered like a boy who has been publicly rebuked. "I'llcome when you say," he replied.

  "Not a minute before four o'clock."

  "That's a long time--now you've made me crazy to see you."

  "Don't talk nonsense. I must go back to work."

  "What are you doing?" he asked, to detain her.

  "Dusting and polishing. Molly did the sweeping and is cleaning windowsnow."

  "What have you got on?"

  "How silly you are!"

  "No one knows that better than I. But I want to have a picture of you tolook at."

  "I've got on an old white skirt and an old shirt waist, both dirty, anda pair of tennis shoes that were white once but are gray now, where theyaren't black. And I've got a pink chiffon rag tied round my hair."

  "Pink is wonderful when you wear it."

  "I look a fright. And my face is streaked--and my arms."

  "Oh, you've got your sleeves rolled up. That's an important detail."

  "You're making fun of me."

  "No, I'm thinking of your arms. They are--ravishing."

  "That's quite enough. Good-by."

  And she rang off. He was used to her treating compliment and flatteryfrom him in that fashion. He could not--or was it would not?--understandwhy. He had learned that she was not at all the indifferent and unawareperson in the matter of her physical charms he had at first fancied her.On the contrary, she had more than her share of physical vanity--notmore than was her right, in view of her charms, but more than she couldcarry off well. With many a secret smile he had observed that shethought herself perfect physically. This did not repel him; it neverdoes repel a man--when and so long as he is under the enchantment of thecharms the woman more or less exaggerates. But, while he had often seenwomen with inordinate physical vanity, so often that he had come toregarding it as an essential part of feminine character, never beforehad he seen one so content with her own good opinion of herself that shewas indifferent to appreciation from others.

  He did not go back to the office after lunch. Several important matterswere coming up; if he got within reach they might conspire to make itimpossible for him to be with her on time. If his partners, his clientsknew! He the important man of affairs kneeling at the feet of anobody!--and why? Chiefly because he was unable to convince her that heamounted to anything. His folly nauseated him. He sat in a corner in thedining room of the Lawyers' Club and drank one whisky and soda afteranother and brooded over his follies and his unhappiness, mutteringmonotonously from time to time: "No wonder she makes a fool of me. Iinvite it, I beg for it, damned idiot that I am!" By three o'clock hehad drunk enough liquor to have dispatched the average man for severaldays. It had produced no effect upon him beyond possibly a slightaggravation of his moodiness.

  It took only twenty minutes to get from New York to her house. He setout at a few minutes after three; arrived at twenty minutes to four. Asexperience of her ways had taught him that she was much less friendlywhen he disobeyed her requests, he did not dare go to the house, but,after looking at it from a corner two blocks away, made a detour thatwould use up some of the time he had to waste. And as he wandered heindulged in his usual alternations between self-derision and passion. Heappeared at the house at five minutes to four. Patrick, who with Mollyhis wife looked after the domestic affairs, was at the front gate gazingdown the street in the direction from which he always came. At sight ofhim Pat came running. Norman quickened his pace, and every part of hisnervous system was in turmoil.

  "Mr. Hallowell--he's--_dead_," gasped Pat.

  "Dead?" echoed Norman.

  "Three quarters of an hour ago, sir. He came from the lobatry, walked inthe sitting room where Miss Dorothy was oiling the furniture and I wasoiling the floor. And he sets down--and he looks at her--as cool andcalm as could be--and he says, 'Dorothy, my child, I'm dying.' And shestands up straight and looks at him curious like--just curious like. Andhe says, 'Dorothy, good-by.' And he shivers, and I jumps up just in timeto catch him from rolling to the floor. He was dead then--so the doctorsays."

  "Dead!" repeated Norman, looking round vaguely.

  He went on to the house, Pat walking beside him and chattering on andon--a stream of words Norman did not hear. As he entered the open frontdoor Dorothy came down the stairs. He had thought he knew how white herskin was. But he did not know until then. And from that ghostly pallorlooked the eyes of grief beyond tears. He advanced toward her. But sheseemed to be wrapped in an atmosphere of aloofness. He felt himself astranger and an alien. After a brief silence she said: "I don't realizeit. I've been upstairs where Pat carried him--but I don't realize it. Itsimply can't be."

  "Do you know what he wished to say to me?" he asked.

  "No. I guess he felt this coming. Probably it came quicker than heexpected. Now I can see that he hasn't been well for several days. Buthe would never let anything about illness be said. He thought talking ofthose things made them worse."

  "You have relatives--somebody you wish me to telegraph?"

  She shook her head. "No one. Our relatives out West are second cousinsor further away. They care nothing about us. No, I'm all alone."

  The tears sprang to his eyes. But there were no tears in her eyes, noforlornness in her voice. She was simply stating a fact. He said: "I'lllook after everything. Don't give it a moment's thought."

  "No, I'll arrange," replied she. "It'll give me something todo--something to do for him. You see, it's my last chance." And sheturned to ascend the stairs. "Something to do," she repeated dully. "Iwish I hadn't cleaned house this morning. That would be something moreto do."

  This jarred on him--then brought the tears to his eyes again. Howchildish she was!--and how desolate! "But you'll let me stay?" hepleaded. "You'll need me. At any rate, I want to feel that you do."

  "I'd rather you didn't stay," she said, in the same calm, remote way."I'd rather be alone with him, this last time. I'll go up and sit thereuntil they take him away. And then--in a few days I'll see what todo--I'll send for you."

  "I can't leave you at such a time," he cried. "You haven't realized yet.When you do you will need some one."

  "You don't understand," she interrupted. "He and I understood each otherin some ways. I know he'd not want--anyone round."

  At her slight hesitation before "anyone" he winced.

  "I must be alone with him," she went on. "Thank you, but I want to gonow."

  "Not just yet," he begged. Then, seeing the shadow of annoyance on herbeautiful white face, he rose and said: "I'm going. I only want to helpyou." He extended his hand impulsively, drew it back before she had thechance to refuse it. For he felt that she would refuse it. He said, "Youknow you can rely on me."

  "But I don't need anybody," replied she. "Good-by."

  "If I can do anything
----"

  "Pat will telephone." She was already halfway upstairs.

  He found Pat in the front yard, and arranged with him to get news and tosend messages by way of the drug store at the corner, so that she wouldknow nothing about it. He went to a florist's in New York and sentmasses of flowers. And then--there was nothing more to do. He stopped inat the club and drank and gambled until far into the morning. He frettedgloomily about all the next day, riding alone in the Park, driving withhis sister, drinking and gambling at the club again and smilingcynically to himself at the covert glances his acquaintances exchanged.He was growing used to those glances. He cared not the flip of a pennyfor them.

  On the third day came the funeral, and he went. He did not let hiscabman turn in behind the one carriage that followed the hearse. At thegraveyard he stood afar off, watching her in her simple new black,noting her calm. She seemed thinner, but he thought it might be simplyher black dress. He could see no change in her face. As she was leavingthe grave, she looked in his direction but he was uncertain whether shehad seen him. Pat and Molly were in the big, gloomy looking carriagewith her.

  He ventured to go to the front gate an hour later. Pat came out. "It'sno use to go in, Mr. Norman," he said. "She'll not see you. She's shutup in her own room."

  "Hasn't she cried yet, Pat?"

  "Not yet. We're waiting for it, sir. We're afraid her mind will giveway. At least, Molly is. I don't think so. She's a queer young lady--asqueer as she looks--though at first you'd never think it. She's alwayslooking different. I never seen so many persons in one."

  "Can't Molly _make_ her cry?--by talking about him?"

  "She's tried, sir. It wasn't no use. Why, Miss Dorothy talks about himjust as if he was still here." Pat wiped the sweat from his forehead."I've been in many a house of mourning, but never through such a strainas this. Somehow I feel as if I'd never before been round where therewas anyone that'd lost somebody they _really_ cared about. Weeping andmoaning don't amount to much beside what she's doing."

  Norman stayed round for an hour or more, then rushed away distracted. Hedrank like a madman--drank himself into a daze, and so got a few hoursof a kind of sleep. He was looking haggard and wild now, and everyoneavoided him, though in fact there was not the least danger of anoutburst of temper. His sister--Josephine--the office--several clientstelephoned for him. To all he sent the same refusal--that he was too illto see anyone. Not until the third day after the funeral did Dorothytelephone for him.

  He took an ice-cold bath, got himself together as well as he could, andreached the house in Jersey City about half past three in the afternoon.She came gliding into the room like a ghost, trailing a black negligeethat made the whiteness of her skin startling. Her eyelids were heavyand dark, but unreddened. She gazed at him with calm, clear melancholy,and his heart throbbed and ached for her. She seated herself, claspedher hands loosely in her lap, and said:

  "I've sent for you so that I could settle things up."

  "Your father's affairs? Can't I do it better?"

  "He had arranged everything. There are only the papers--his notes--andhe wrote out the addresses of the men they were to be sent to. No, Imean settle things up with you."

  "You mustn't bother about that," said he. "Besides, there's nothing tosettle."

  "I shan't pretend I'm going to try to pay you back," she went on, as ifhe had not spoken. "I never could do it. But you will get part at leastby selling this furniture and the things at the laboratory."

  "Dorothy--please," he implored. "Don't you understand you're to stay onhere, just the same? What sort of man do you think I am? I did this foryou, and you know it."

  "But I did it for my father," replied she, "and he's gone." She wasresting her melancholy gaze upon him. "I couldn't take anything fromyou. You didn't think I was that kind?"

  He was silent.

  "I cared nothing about the scandal--what people said--so long as I wasdoing it for him. . . . I'd have done _anything_ for him. Sometimes Ithought you were going to compel me to do things I'd have hated to do. Ihope I wronged you, but I feared you meant that." She sat thinkingseveral minutes, sighed wearily. "It's all over now. It doesn't matter.I needn't bother about it any more."

  "Dorothy, let's not talk of these things now," said Norman. "There's nohurry. I want you to wait until you are calm and have thought everythingover. Then I'm sure you'll see that you ought to stay on."

  "How could I?" she asked wonderingly.

  "Why not? Am I demanding anything of you? You know I'm not--and that Inever shall."

  "But there's no reason on earth why _you_ should support _me_. I can work.Why shouldn't I? And if I didn't, if I stayed on here, what sort ofwoman would I be?"

  He was unable to find an answer. He was trying not to see a look in herface--or was it in her soul, revealed through her eyes?--a look thatmade him think for the first time of a resemblance between her and herfather.

  "You see yourself I've got to go. Any money I could earn wouldn't morethan pay for a room and board somewhere."

  "You can let me advance you money while you--" He hesitated, had an ideawhich he welcomed eagerly--"while you study for the stage. Yes, that'sthe sensible thing. You can learn to act. Then you will be able to makea decent living."

  She slowly shook her head. "I've no talent for it--and no liking. No,Mr. Norman, I must go back to work--and right away."

  "But at least wait until you've looked into the stage business," heurged. "You may find that you like it and that you have talent for it."

  "I can't take any more from you," she said.

  "You think I am not to be trusted. I'm not going to say now how I feeltoward you. But I can honestly say one thing. Now that you are all aloneand unprotected, you needn't have the least fear of me."

  She smiled faintly. "I see you don't believe me. Well, it doesn'tmatter. I've seen Mr. Tetlow and he has given me a place at twelve aweek in his office."

  Norman sank back in his chair. "He is in for himself now?"

  "No. He's head clerk for Pitchley & Culver."

  "Culver!" exclaimed Norman. "I don't want you to go into Culver'soffice. He's a scoundrel."

  Again Dorothy smiled faintly. Norman colored. "I know he stands well--aswell as I do. But I can't trust you with him. That sounds ridiculousbut--it's true."

  "I think I can trust myself," she said quietly. Her grave regard fixedhis. "Don't you?" she asked.

  His eyes lowered. "Yes," he replied. "But--why shouldn't you come backwith us? I'll see that you get a much better position than Culver'sgiving you."

  Over her face crept one of those mysterious transformations that madeher so bafflingly fascinating to him. Behind that worldly-wise,satirical mask was she mocking at him? All she said was: "I couldn'twork there. I've settled it with Mr. Tetlow. I go to work to-morrow."

  "To-morrow!" he cried, starting up.

  "And I've found a place to live. Pat and Molly; will take care of thingsfor you here."

  "Dorothy! You don't _mean_ this? You're not going to break off?"

  "I shan't see you again--except as we may meet by accident."

  "Do you realize what you're saying means to me?" he cried. "Don't youknow how I love you?" He advanced toward her. She stood and waitedpassively, looking at him. "Dorothy--my love--do you want to kill me?"

  "When are you to be married?" she asked quietly.

  "You are playing with me!" he cried. "You are tormenting me. What have Iever done that you should treat me this way?" He caught her unresistinghands and kissed them. "Dear--my dear--don't you care for me at all?"

  "No," she said placidly. "I've always told you so."

  He seized her in his arms, kissed her with a frenzy that was savage,ferocious. "You will drive me mad. You _have_ driven me mad!" he muttered.And he added, unconscious that he was speaking his thoughts, sodistracted was he: "You _must_ love me--you _must_! No woman has everresisted me. You cannot."

  She drew herself away from him, stood before him like snow, like ice."One thing
I have never told you. I'll tell you now," she saiddeliberately. "I despise you."

  He fell back a step and the chill of her coldness seemed to be freezingthe blood in his veins.

  "I've always despised you," she went on, and he shivered before thatcontemptuous word--it seemed only the more contemptuous for hercalmness. "Sometimes I've despised you thoroughly--again only alittle--but always that feeling."

  For a moment he thought she had at last stung his pride into thesemblance of haughtiness. He was able to look at her with mocking eyesand to say, "I congratulate you on your cleverness in concealing yourfeelings."

  "It wasn't my cleverness," she said wearily. "It was your blindness. Inever deceived you."

  "No, you never have," he replied sincerely. "Perhaps I deserve to bedespised. Again, perhaps if you knew the world--the one I livein--better, you'd think less harshly of me."

  "I don't think harshly of you. How could I--after all you did for myfather?"

  "Dorothy, if you'll stay here and study for the stage--or anything youchoose--I promise you I'll never speak of my feeling for you--or show itin any way--unless you yourself give me leave."

  She smiled with childlike pathos. "You ought not to tempt me. Do youwant me to keep on despising you? Can't you ever be fair with me?"

  The sad, frank gentleness of the appeal swung his unhinged mind to theother extreme--from the savagery of passion to a frenzy of remorse."Fair to _you_? No," he cried, "because I love you. Oh, I'mashamed--bitterly ashamed. I'm capable of any baseness to get you.You're right. You can't trust me. In going you're saving me frommyself." He hesitated, stared wildly, appalled at the words that werefighting for utterance--the words about marriage--about marrying her! Hesaid hoarsely: "I am mad--mad! I don't know what I'm saying.Good-by--For God's sake, don't think the worst of me, Dorothy. Good-by.I _will_ be a man again--I will!"

  And he wrung her hand and, talking incoherently, he rushed from the roomand from the house.